“Then the hybrid model becomes adaptive instead of static.” He looks at me, eyes bright. “Audrey, this could actually work.”
For a moment, it’s like the last three months never happened. We’re just two people who think the same way, who see patterns in the same places, who make each other smarter just by being in the same room.
This is the problem, isn’t it? This feeling. Like my brain finally has a sparring partner. Like I’m operating at full capacity instead of running on safe mode.
No one else does this to me. No one else even comes close.
Which is exactly why I need to be careful.
Then I realize how close we are.
His shoulder almost touching mine. His face inches away. I can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw.
He’s looking at the screen. Then he’s looking at me. And something shifts in his expression—his pupils dilating, his lips parting slightly, his breath going shallow.
He notices me noticing.
The air between us turns electric.
I pull back so fast I nearly roll my chair into the wall. “We should—standup. We’re late.”
“Right.” His voice comes out rough. He clears his throat, tries again. “Right. Yes. Standup.”
He rolls his chair back to a safe distance, but something lingers in the space between us. A charge. An awareness.
The standup goes smoothly. Landon James seems cautiously optimistic about our progress, and even the most skeptical members of the team perk up when Logan presents the adaptive hybrid model. I contribute where I can, building on his explanations, and by the end of the meeting, we have a clear action plan for the next two weeks of testing.
It feels like progress. Real progress, not just treading water.
Afterward, as the team disperses, Logan catches my eye across the room.
“Good meeting,” he says.
“Good work.” I nod at his laptop. “The presentation was solid.”
“Couldn’t have done it without your framework.” He hesitates. “I meant what I said last night. About trying to be friends.”
Friends. The word sits strangely in my chest. Can you be friends with someone who broke your heart? Can you be friends with someone you’re still?—
No. Not going there.
“I’m willing to try,” I hear myself say. “For the project.”
“For the project,” he echoes. But there’s something in his voice—hope, maybe—that makes it sound like more.
“Don’t make it weird,” I warn.
“I never make things weird.”
I actually laugh. It surprises both of us.
“You make everything weird,” I say. “That’s your whole personality.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Fair.”
He heads back to his workstation, and I watch him go, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions in my chest. Anger, yes—that’s still there, simmering beneath the surface. But something else, too.
Hope.
